


The Absolute Monarch of Latte-Veria

by andrewsarchus



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewsarchus/pseuds/andrewsarchus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You will be back!" roared Doom.  "If not for the mochachino, you will be back for the almond biscotti!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Absolute Monarch of Latte-Veria

There was someone banging on the door. Doom looked at the nearby worker, moving a push-broom methodically and precisely across the pristine floor. Malfunctioning again!

"Get the door." he said. "Doom commands it!"

No response. Probably the auditory receptors on the fritz again. Damn Radio Shack and their off-brand Taiwanese components. They would rue the day they failed Doom. But revenge on the Radio Shack was not the task of the moment--now, there was nobody who could handle this but Doom himself; the others were not yet activated.

He strode from behind the counter. "Latte-Veria does not open until 7:00," he said. "It is not yet 7:00."

"Just get me a cup of coffee," said the man on the other side of the door. "It's like five minutes to seven, and my bus--"

"Victor von Doom serves no man before seven AM!" he said, turning away from the door. "I am not the beck and call of every itinerant scoundrel with two dollars and thirty-five cents to spend. Latte-Veria opens at seven, and at seven it will open."

"Dammit, I come here every goddamn day," continued the man. "If you can't open a minute early, I'm not coming back--"

"You will be back!" roared Doom. "If not for the mochachino, you will be back for the almond biscotti! Now leave, and do not return for another three minutes and eighteen seconds!"

The rest of the morning was much like that. Women who could not master the mathematical operations required to determine if the change they had received was correct, and men for whom eighteen varieties of coffee was too bewildering an array, and an endless number of poltroons who insisted on calling a medium coffee a venti.

But they came, as they always did. Egotistical dolts who thought themselves the equals of Doom would challenge his methods, even mock. But none could match the coffees of Latte-Veria, nor its wide assortment of baked goods.

At 11:15 the monotony was broken by the phone ringing. Few called Doom during business hours—Telemarketers, franchise owners, casual acquaintances, even the gods themselves knew better than to disturb Doom at his labors. And those who did not know, would learn.

He lifted the phone from its hook. "Who dares--" he began, but then the voice at the other end spoke.

"Victor?" it said, faintly.

"Mother?" he asked, hardly daring to hope.

"Victor," she repeated. "I'm back at the DMV. They want. . . ." there was a burst of static. Curse Verizon and all its works! For weeks, there had been problems with the line, and the witless minions they had sent out had but made those problems worse.

"Bad connection," he said, when the static had cleared. "What can I do to loose you from that purgatory?"

"Fantastic Four Cheese Pizza," said a man's voice at the other end. "What can I get you?"

"RICHARDS!" howled Doom. "Get off the line, you lackwit!"

"Look, the phone rings, I answer it. You want pizza or--"

Another voice cut in. "Yea, send thee forth two of thy finest pizzas, topped as high as the rainbow bridge itself."

"You want fries or coke with that?"

"I say thee nay! Neither do we wish for--"

Doom slammed the phone down in a rage.

"Why not just get a cell phone?" asked the woman who was standing in front of the register.

"Attend to your own concerns, varlet!" spat Doom. "Your total is $9.12."

She paid, and moved along. As though Doom would sign the usurious contracts imposed for cellular service, or relax the Faraday cage that he kept around Latte-veria. With that gone, it would be a simple matter of a calibrated EMP pulse to disable the staff, and leave the beverages and baked goods of Latte-veria entirely undefended. Furthermore, the chatter of the customers was inane enough when they were limited to conversing with those around them. Would they follow a sign forbidding the use of cell phones? Of course they would not; they could not even discard used napkins in the receptacles designed for that purpose. He would use his land-line, and he would use it regardless of what that fool Richards was doing.

He picked up the phone again. Perhaps the problem would not recur with an outgoing call.

"No, Batroc," said Richards. "You cannot get snails as a topping. And no, you can't pay with a check. Your last check bounced." There was a distinctively Gallic snigger on the other end of the line, and then it went dead. Unfortunately, as soon as Doom started dialing, another call came through.

Doom slammed the receiver back into place, and glared at the denizens of Latte-veria. They averted their gazes, knowing  
better than to cross Doom when he was in that state.

If he could just keep Richards off the phone, just for a few minutes, he could find out what she needed, and rescue Cynthia von Doom from puce décor and endless lines of the DMV. He willed it, so it would be done!

That Frenchman had given Doom an idea. He went to the back, leaving the register to one of staff, and went to work. The parts from Radio Shack were inferior, certainly, as were those he had ordered from Amazon. But the minds that he intended to influence were inferior as well; it would serve.

The bases of the cups were thick enough to hold the transmitters, and kept in place long enough to have the needed effect. Doom finished his work, and assigned one of the staff to affixing the transmitters.

He returned to the register, and continued his work.

It was not long before a man sitting at one of the side tables threw down his paper. "Someone's got to prank call the Fantastic Four Cheese Pizza," he said. "And that someone is me!" He checked his cell, saw he had no reception, and stormed out into the street.

Doom smiled, not even angered by the way the man had left his paper behind and cup undiscarded. Soon, Richards would have to cease answering the phone, and he would be able to complete his call in peace. That it would harm that fool Richards' business was a happy side effect; when Doom set his mind to a task, that task was accomplished.

For the next ten minutes, patrons would take their cups, and their instructions with them, and go out to do Doom's bidding. Long enough; even a moron such as Richards would have turned the ringer off at that point, the only possible defense against the incessant attacks.

Doom reached for the phone, and it rang. His heart leapt in his chest; perhaps this would . . . "Ach!" said the voice on the other end. "Haben sie. . . do you have Prinz Albert in eine kanne?"

"Schmidt, you FOOL!," bellowed Doom. "This is Latte-veria, not the rightful target of your malice! And I do not, but should said monarch fall into my hands, he would weep for joy to be given the spacious comfort of a tobacconist's vessel!"

He slammed it down, and reached for it again. Again it rang.

A sudden chill ran down Doom's spine. He looked across the street, and yes, there was a new banner on the Baxter shopfront. They had altered the number for the Fantastic Four Cheese Pizza to Doom's own line! And they had left that microcephalic Grimm out, to prevent Doom's staff from interfering with it!

He ought to have programmed the chips to include the number, but he had not anticipated this act of low cunning. It would be a matter of moments to change it, but . . . the clock up on the wall ticked over. 4 PM. It was too late. His mother would be some time in transit, and once she arrived home, neither her sleep, nor her viewing of "The Bachelor" could be interrupted.

That accursed Richards! Thanks to him, Cynthia von Doom would be spending yet another day at the DMV. It was yet another entry in the list of the crimes for which Richards would someday pay. Doom flicked the ringer off on the phone, and glowered from his station behind the register. Next time, he would not take anything for granted. Next time, Richards would be cast down into the dust, and his mother would be freed. So Doom willed it, thus it would be!

Similarly, it was time to begin planning for the holidays; an eggnog latte, perhaps, and gingerbread cookies. So Doom willed it, thus it would be!


End file.
